


Bun

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 20:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: It’s too hot to not want Elrond desperately.





	Bun

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Even with the tall windows open wide, Elrond’s office is _boiling_ , and Lindir has to fight the urge to fan himself with his files. He’s tied his hair back in a long braid, meticulous and tidy to the last strand, but the bulk of it still clings to the back of his neck, and his robes seem glued to his body. He can feel the sweat beading under his chin and between his shoulder blades. This month has been brutal, but today’s decidedly the worst.

And Lindir’s brain is melting for it. He feels like he hasn’t been able to think straight in weeks. The words on the parchment in his hands seem to run together. He blinks and tries to focus, only to lose his concentration again when Elrond lets out a subtle sigh.

Across the open space, Elrond is slumped at his desk, posture unusually poor—the summer air is affecting even him. It pains Lindir to see. He longs to be able to dribble cool drops of ice water across his lord’s forehead, to fan Elrond with long feathers as he lounges in the sitting room, even to offer a cold bath in which to rest his feet. But Elrond, of course, asks for none of it—he works through the weather, diligent as always. Lindir’s in awe of him. Lindir always is. And through the waving haze of heat, Lindir _stares_ at his gorgeous lord, full of love and sympathy.

Elrond’s robes are too thick. Their collar doesn’t cover his whole throat today, but they’re still too high, showing none of his chest, and the sleeves fall down past his knuckles. His dark hair is a luscious waterfall that cascades down his shoulders, two little braids hung before his ears and clinging to his body. His breath is only slightly laboured as he works, tough and shallow—Lindir’s is worse. Lindir loses himself in that perfect vision, and then he asks without thought, “My lord... might I tie your hair up for you?”

Elrond glances over from his work. Lindir blushes under it, as he often does, worse now for his impropriety—he shouldn’t have spoken out of turn. But it hurts him to watch his lord suffer so, and he’s had the honour of doing Elrond’s hair before. He’s never done it _up_ —few wear it so, even in this heat—but surely the weather permits that change. Donning a warm smile, Elrond nods. 

Giddy with a bubbling sort of glee that should never touch him at work, Lindir rises from his own desk. He glides across the space and fetches a ribbon from the shelf in the corner—deep crimson, like the trim of Elrond’s exquisite robes. Then Lindir drifts behind him, sucks in long breath, and bows forward to begin gathering his silken locks within busy fingers. 

Smooth and soft, the curtain of Elrond’s hair shimmers in Lindir’s hold, shining under the midday sun. There isn’t a single tangle, a single split end, and Lindir lifts it studiously, pinching it in one hand while the other constantly combs out the rest, not wanting to leave a single bump out of place. Elrond deserves only perfection. Lindir works with precision and care, catching every stray strand that threatens to defy the mold. He eyes his lord’s broad shoulders as he moves, the lean line of Elrond’s neck, and the pale flush of his skin. He’s always struck Lindir as absurdly handsome, and moments of close proximity like this are ones that Lindir cherishes. When it’s finally all in place, he ties the ribbon crisply in a bow.

And before he withdraws, he lifts it to make sure, and his eyes catch a single bead of sweat slipping down the nape of Elrond’s neck. 

Without thinking, captivated by the warmth of Elrond’s body and the cedar scent of his skin, Lindir bends down and swipes his tongue across the back. 

He’s done in another heartbeat, the sweat replaced with the thin sheen of Lindir’s lick. As he straightens again, his mind comes crashing in on him: the magnitude of what he’s done, the folly and the sin—how inappropriate, how rude, how _crude_. He quakes, balking, “M-my lord, I am sorry, oh, please forgive me, I did not mean—” But he _did_ , and there is no excusing that.

For a moment, Elrond is still. Lindir trembles where he stands, horrified with himself, until Elrond slowly turns around to look over his shoulder.

He gestures with one hand. Lindir obediently bends forward, eyes scrunched closed and teeth grit together.

A chaste kiss is pressed against his cheek. Lindir’s eyes fly open in shock, but Elrond’s already withdrawn.

“You are forgiven,” he murmurs, “though I wish that you had found another day to broach the subject of your interest—I do not know if I can stand today’s heat with your attention atop it. Perhaps we might discuss this tomorrow, when we have both had time to cool off, and my pulse can stand another reason to race.”

Numb, Lindir answers, “Yes, my lord.” Affection swirls in Elrond’s eyes. He smiles and turns back to his work.

Lindir, more mesmerized than ever at the sight of Elrond with his hair corralled, surges back to life. He returns to the desk where he belongs, quivering with new emotion.

He attempts to work, but in truth, he only steals little looks at the man he’s always loved. Whenever Elrond catches them, he smiles.

Lindir melts, and he’s never been so happy.


End file.
